The Guardian

  “What happened after that?”

  She stumbled over the words when she tried to describe the minutes in the suite before he and Dave had arrived. Marcus paused her. “Relax. Take it slow.” He had to ask. He needed to know if she had noticed anything else about the shooter after that first shot.

  “I’m sorry, Marcus. After Josh hit me . . . ” She shook her head.

  “It’s okay. Let’s change subjects.” He picked up the larger pad of paper he’d borrowed from another officer, then removed a second, more expensive fine-lead pencil from his pocket. “Let’s try to get a sketch.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  “I’m decent at the basics.” The importance of faces to his job had given him years of practice. “Close your eyes, think about his face, and just tell me what you see.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered closed, and she drew and released a deep breath. “Think tough. Intense. He’s got wide cheekbones and broad eyebrows. Everything about his appearance is well groomed, except it looks like he has run his hand through his hair.”

  As he sketched, Marcus paid attention to how she remembered details, listening for when she hesitated. He had worked with a lot of witnesses over the years. Shari had an unusually sharp memory for details; very little of what she said was vague. “What do you do for the governor?” he asked idly.

  “I write speeches; I’m working on his reelection campaign.”

  “You use memory tricks to remember the name and face of everyone you meet.” It was more a statement than a question; the answer was pretty obvious. He sketched in the jawline of the suspect.

  “Yes. It’s instinctive now.”

  There was something about watching a quarry appear under his pencil that always made an impact on Marcus. It became personal, the attachment of a face to the crime. The face would stay with him for years, would remain vivid until the case was solved. Since most of his cases were tracking down fugitives, he often spent his time traveling modifying sketches of suspects to age them, change their appearance, until he knew their face as well as he knew his own.

  “How would you adjust this?” He turned the sketch to her.

  “Hey, it’s not bad.”

  He smiled at her surprise.

  She took it from him, studied it. He watched her close her eyes, then open them for a brief instant and close them again—it was a memory trick, a way to give her a good comparison. She handed the sketch back and indicated the cheekbones. “Lower the cheekbones just a little, and broaden his eyebrows.”

  Marcus refined it.

  “Better.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, he changed it until Shari could think of no further adjustments. “That’s him.”

  Marcus studied the face, memorizing it. He added all the specifics Shari had told him about the shooter to the bottom of the page—age, height, weight, clothing. “Let me get people working on this. And I am going to get someone to look at that knee,” he warned. “You need an ice pack on that and probably a dozen other bruises.”

  “Josh hits like a linebacker. And I am starting to feel the effects. My ribs ache.”

  Shari was just like his four sisters. Downplaying what hurt unless he called them on it. “Then it’s definitely time for you to see a doctor.”

  He glanced at his watch, found it was coming up on midnight. “I won’t be long. And I’ll have Craig stay with you while I’m gone.”

  “I’m okay, Marcus.”

  “I know you are, but humor me.” He reached in his pocket. “Until we can get your things cleared at the scene, I got you another phone.”

  He hesitated, then pulled a blank page from the back of the notebook and wrote down two numbers. “Memorize them,” he said quietly. “If you ever need me, for any reason, a problem, a question, just to chat about the weather—” he smiled—“or to share one of those secrets of yours, page me and put in the second number. It’s unique. I’ll call, no matter where I am.”

  She looked at it, puzzled.

  “You don’t need to understand. Just use it if you need it.”

  “Some kind of secret code.”

  He smiled faintly. “Something like that. A family one.” He picked up his notebook. “I’ll try to bring your address book back with me. Should I bring your pager, or would you like me to conveniently lose it?”

  “What a tempting thought. But you’d better bring it.”

  “Will do.”

  “Marcus, how much can I tell people?”

  He hesitated and became serious. “Don’t tell people you saw him.”

  “Do you think that information can be suppressed?”

  “The longer it can be kept quiet the better.”

  He squeezed her shoulder lightly as he rose, reassuring her again that he would be back. He didn’t want her feeling abandoned in the middle of the commotion, something that could happen without it being intended as investigators working the case focused on the dead at the expense of the living. “Listen to what the doctors tell you. And if you do need to leave this secure wing for some reason, take Craig for company.”

  “I’ve got a baby-sitter.”

  “Something like that,” he replied. “Like I said. Humor me.”

  “Right. Okay. It’s a guy thing.”

  He chuckled. “A U.S. Marshal one at least. I’ll be back.”

  * * *

  Shari watched the door close behind him and found it took a few moments for her smile to fade. She really liked that man; he was definitely the right person to have around during a crisis. He was right about her habit of memorizing a face and name, and she had the habit of also remembering first impressions. For Marcus it was an interesting combination of words: tough, strong, kind.

  She looked at the numbers on the slip of paper, memorizing them. She had worn her emergency pager far too long not to understand the significance of what he had given her. She was frankly surprised at the scope of what he had just offered.

  His hand when he had squeezed her shoulder had been warm and comforting, if impersonal. He thought she could get through this; it came through in his steady gaze and touch. Shari wished she shared his confidence.

  She rubbed the back of her neck. She more than just ached; the headache was becoming vicious. The muscles in her back had tightened to the point they would break; her bones refused to unlock. She got to her feet to walk the length of the room, willing to accept the pain from her aching knee to try and get her muscles to relax.

  What she needed to do next . . . Where did she start? There were relatives to call, distant ones, but a lot of them. Shari felt ashamed to realize at that moment she was actually glad her family was in Virginia and wouldn’t be able to descend for a few hours. She simply didn’t have the means to cope with a crowd right now, and they would want to talk about the details. Aunt Margaret, Mom’s sister, would be a great help to have here, but she lived in London. It would take a day for her to make the trip.

  Carl’s friends. How was she going to break the word Carl was dead? Shari shuddered just at the thought. He’d been in her life since her earliest memories, a friend of the family, the uncle she had never had. How was she supposed to tell his friends he had been murdered?

  A heart attack she could have handled, but shot to death—maybe John could make those calls for her. Someone would have to call before they found out from the media.

  She knew Dad was executor of Carl’s will, and he was in no position to deal with that responsibility. Neither was Josh. That meant Carl’s funeral arrangements would fall to her. And she would have to get plans underway quickly or Mom would try to step in. That was the last kind of stress Mom needed right now.

  She had never planned a funeral before.

  “I need that pad of paper,” she murmured. She was starting to think, and she wished she could shut it off for a moment, the assault of things that needed to be done. She didn’t want to be the one to handle them, but by default she was elected.

  She was thirty-four, and until this po
int in her life the toughest challenge she had been asked to face was the defeat of legislation she had poured months of effort into, the defeat of a candidate she believed in, and the heartbreak of a relationship gone bad.

  The terror she had struggled to push down and contain while Marcus was here broke through, and she leaned her head against the window, her breath fogging the glass.

  Jesus, why?

  She felt tears sliding down her cheeks as she remembered Carl lying dead, Josh shot, Dad shot.

  I’ve never seen so much blood before. This is my family and it stands on a precipice of being shattered in one night. Carl is dead. Mom is at risk. Josh and Dad are both in surgery. I feel like Job tonight who lost his family in a single day.

  She needed her dad and brother to recover; she didn’t even want to think about God giving a different answer to her prayer. How was she supposed to pray? She had no eloquence, and not many words, only emotions. I am so scared, Lord. Did my brief cause this? I prayed so stubbornly for Carl to reach the court and I poured all my skills into writing that brief. Did I walk Carl into getting killed?

  Jesus, I am so scared that I did just that. And now Josh is hurt, and Dad might die too!

  It had been unintentional, but the guilt swamped over her like a wave.

  It took time for the words memorized long ago to come through the turmoil. When they came, from Psalm 68, they settled over her with softness.

  “Blessed be the Lord, who daily bears us up; God is our salvation. Our God is a God of salvation; and to God, the Lord, belongs escape from death.”

  Jesus had already proven His power over death. Bear me up, Lord. Hold me tight. And get all of us through this night. Please . . .

  * * *

  They should have found the shooter by now; Marcus knew it. He strode into the hotel past the security, past the growing crowd of reporters, his jaw tight. At least with a solid sketch they could turn the tide back in their favor and force the shooter to hole up and thus stay in the area.

  The emotions from being with Shari were finally beginning to bleed off. There was no such thing as impassively being around grief; it always rubbed off and had to be dispelled somehow. Some cops dispelled it in morbid humor; others absorbed it and it tore apart their personal lives. Marcus tended to direct the emotions he felt back in intensity toward the case.

  He couldn’t undo what had happened to her, to her family, but he could help bring her justice. Swift, complete justice. He had never lost a judge before and it stung, viciously.

  The security center activity appeared chaotic on the surface, but only until it became apparent how the groups had appropriated space. Mike had overall coordination of the room at the moment, and he was pacing as he talked on a phone.

  Marcus held up the sketch and waved Mike toward the east side of the room where Luke was working; he got a nod in reply.

  He joined his deputy, Luke. “Shari was able to give us a sketch of the shooter. Put priority on getting copies to Quinn and to hospital security. Then put a rush on getting it run through our databases. I want an ID on this guy.”

  “Do you want it given out to the media?”

  “I want to hear Dave, Quinn, and Mike’s opinions first, but probably. I would like to get a name to go with the face first. The media’s all over this?”

  Luke nodded. “News got out about twenty-five minutes ago. We’ve made all the networks. The phone lines have been jammed with the volume of TV crews and print reporters. We’ve implemented our contingency bank of isolated numbers. So far they know it was Judge Whitmore killed; they know there were others hurt. It hasn’t leaked yet that there’s a witness and so far we’ve been able to suppress the Hanford name, but I don’t expect that to hold.”

  “Neither do I. Grant is coordinating all press information?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get a copy of the sketch to him as well. And tell him to do what he can to kill the witness information somehow. The shooter knows Shari saw him, but I’d rather not keep reminding him of that fact.”

  Luke handed over two manila folders. “Carl’s threat file and what there is so far on the Hanford family.”

  Marcus flipped open the file on the Hanfords. They had pulled together a lot in a short time: pictures, bio sketches, newspaper clippings. He focused on Shari’s personal friends. She needed someone with her tonight. If he could get it arranged, all the better. “Luke, track down Governor Palmer of Virginia for me. He’ll have heard by now, I’m sure. Tell him I want to speak with him about Shari.”

  “I’ll get him for you and forward the call.”

  The number of newspaper clippings on Shari was thick and this was only a brief set compared to what would come with time. A good rule of thumb: Anyone in the news this often had enemies. “We need someone focused solely on building Shari’s file. She’s our only known witness and I don’t like the look of this file. She is way too public a figure—these are news articles not social page clips. That means trouble. Tell them to pull everything for the last three years and get it to me fast.”

  “News footage as well as print?”

  “Yes.”

  Marcus opened Judge Whitmore’s file. Carl’s threat file was indeed slim—twelve threats in five years. Marcus skimmed the codes on the index page. Three death threats, but none of them in the last couple years. He frowned. There wasn’t much here to work with. “Anything at all on Whitmore’s personal life? Relatives, background, finances, anything?”

  “They are digging.”

  “Have someone track me down as soon as it comes in.”

  “Will do. There’s a growing list of calls coming in for Shari and her family. The hospital knows not to give out information, and the hotel has been instructed to simply take messages. Any change to that?”

  “No, keep that blackout in place. I’ll ask Shari if there is a family friend she wants to have return calls on their behalf. They are going to need a family spokesperson to deal with the press. Quinn is upstairs?”

  “Yes. Nothing turned up in the floor sweeps.”

  “The shooter’s gone.” The clock was a harsh master.

  “We’ll plaster the city with the sketch. You know the local cops will do a full-court press to be the ones to bring him in.”

  “There is that,” Marcus agreed, just wanting the guy found. “I’m going to touch base with Dave and Quinn, then head back to the hospital. Page me if we get anything.”

  He stepped out of the Belmont Room and literally bumped into his sister Jennifer. He automatically reached out a hand to steady her. “Jen, what are you doing here?” He was surprised, not only that she was here, but that she was inside the security zone.

  “I patched up Quinn while he growled at me. Your partner doesn’t like doctors. He’s as bad as some of my pediatric patients.”

  “How bad was he hit?”

  “Sixteen stitches, but he bled for a good hour and a half before he paused to let me fix him up. And he would have refused the local if I hadn’t told him to shut up.”

  “It sounds just like Quinn.”

  “He’s stubborn as a mule,” Jennifer agreed. She took a deep breath. “Actually, Marcus, I’m glad I bumped into you. I’ve got a 9:00 P.M.. flight, and I need to talk to you sometime before then.”

  He went still. “You came over with Kate for dinner.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?” Kate, who knew what was going on, was very worried. He brushed back her hair, tipped up her chin, and tried to read her expression.

  “Nothing that won’t keep until later today.”

  “Jennifer—”

  Her hand settled firmly on his forearm. “It will keep; I’m serious.” She gave him that tolerant smile he had come to know only too well as she talked people into what they didn’t want. “I promise we’ll talk before I have to leave.”

  Trivial things did not have Kate pacing the floor. Marcus was not about to let this be pushed aside. Unfortunately, at the moment Jennifer was ri
ght, there were competing demands on his time he couldn’t ignore. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Do you need any help at the hospital?”

  Given the circumstances, he had to accept the change of subject. “Yes, I think I will. Can I page you? Will you be around the hotel?”

  “Yes, I’ll be here. Go to work.”

  Marcus had no choice. “I’ll page.” He headed to the elevator.

  * * *

  The crime scene had extended to encompass the entire ninth floor. An officer assigned to serve as case scribe recorded Marcus’s badge number, name, and time of arrival to the floor. With the guests evacuated, the floor now effectively sealed off, only necessary officers remained.

  Two crime scene technicians were taking a powerful light down the hallway, looking for evidence that might have been missed on the first pass.

  Dave came to meet him. “How are Josh and William doing?”

  “Still in surgery, but holding on. How’s it going here?” Two men from the medical examiners office were waiting with a stretcher and a folded body bag; Judge Whitmore hadn’t been moved yet.

  “It’s under control.”

  Marcus followed him into the Hanfords’ suite. The crime scene technician videotaping the scene paused to change cassettes, mark the first one into evidence. It was necessary to walk with care; yellow numbered evidence tags marked items slated to be collected once they were photographed.

  He stopped at the connecting door. His sister Lisa was kneeling beside Judge Whitmore’s body, studying his left hand. Marcus was surprised to see her, then realized it made sense. This was as high a profile case as you could get. The medical examiner and the state crime lab commissioner would have talked, assigned one of the central staff to coordinate the scene. “Lisa.”

  She glanced back. “Hi, Marcus.”

  “What do you see?”

  She rocked back on her heels. “Very light powder burns. He tried to block the first shot.”

  She wore latex gloves but was spinning a gold pen. Marcus had learned to leave her pens alone. She liked gold because the blood would wipe off. On the clipboard tucked under her arm, he could see part of her preliminary scene sketch.